Yesterday

 

 

A poem you said I should write. 

 

An African nurse on your ward,

born the day after her  grandmother died,

called Yesterday.  

She was gone as soon.

Nurses from the agency come and go,

good relationships are important

for the patients, you explained.  

And now you are gone; who will carry your spirit?

Tried and trusted strategies for improving political image

1.       The party leader during prolonged applause should let his/her gaze travel along the balcony, whether there is or is not a balcony. In the latter case, the gaze should be pitched at an angle of elevation of approx. 35 degrees.

2.       The greater statesperson is instantly recognizable by his/her being first to extend an arm to usher the other into position when the event is being televised.

3.       The greater statesperson is instantly recognizable by his/her being first to extend a finger to point to something in the sky when the event is being televised. (This might be a cloud shaped like a pigeon or Italy.)

4.       At election time the leader of a Irish party must walk through Ballyfermot in particular formation.  The  preferred  is shown below.

 

 

 

 

 

      A variation on this, which has been much used in the particular instance of whistle-blowers    making public statements is shown below.

 

 

 

5.       When the party leader is making a statement which is to be screened on the main evening news, it is imperative that he/she employ a small group of Father Dougal wannabes to form a semi-circle behind him/her. This group receives basic training in head-nodding, while  one member  of the group receives additional instruction in looking to the left.

 

6.       In the interview situation, the effective politician must always anticipate. At the earliest indication of an unwelcome thread in the questioning, he/she  must be  prepared to recite large portions of Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’. Versatility is essential, on other occasions it may be more appropriate to deconstruct the plotline of ‘Sleeping Beauty’ or sing a little Tom Waits.

7.       In the interview situation, there is no need for the politician to answer the question posited as long as the answer addresses a topic which rhymes with the original e.g. brown envelope, brown antelope; water charges, otter miscarriages.

8.       This final point is obvious but important. The number of women in a cabinet has a minimum threshold that must be observed, however this number must be kept at this minimum. The reason is basic, overt coloration in clothing can sink, not just the individual, but the  entire party.

 

Pain

 

Frida Kahlo knew more about pain than almost any artist I can think of. No surprise then that her paintings need go no further than herself, indeed often no further than her face to represent pain. She learned to live with physical pain, she had no choice: she and pain were one. In her painting ’the broken column’, the column depicts unbearable pain, but is also the backbone of her body.

Frequently, the strength of her imagery comes from her maintaining an austere but otherwise quite inscrutable expression, she lets the symbolism supplied by the various animals or plants that frame her head carry the message. It is understatement that carries the weight in these works.

I mention it because in poetry, time and time again, (even among many poets who are highly lauded), the  urge to spew high-flown verbiage, strangling their poems at birth, leaves me, for one, longing for a good ole football match.

 

The Clouds have overrun the sky

 

 

The whole countryside’s a fluster:

meadows quivering, a tree is screaming,

the boulders have clapped hands over their ears.

 

The word is that the stars have been burgled,

a stream’s stolen the silver,

and a cave, (whisper it), has swallowed the moon.

Do I love you, Science

The Beginning of Science

 

 

Long before Saint Patrick,

leather-footed musicians

would keyhole dawn

to catch the sun in ice candles.

 

They played those flames on strings,

their spikes of sound,

for children’s whistling eyes and lunatics,

who, in their distance, danced.

 

Fire caged in ice, ice in their hand;

music lit from within;

ambition began;

separation became a beauty.

Ungar Died (a short play for lovers of film)

o   What?

·         Ungar died. Ungar………….Felix.

o   Tony Randall?

·         Jack Lemon.

o   Oh.

·         The only man in the world with clenched hair.

o   Put coasters under the coasters, checked for spiders’ muddy footprints on the bathroom floor………..

·         Yeah.

o   You’re like Ungar yourself, you know.

·         What?

o   Neurotic. Only person I’ve ever met who avoids sleeping  on his side so one kidney wouldn’t be over-worked.

·         That only happened once.

o   And you wash money.

·         Yeah, well a recent study concluded that there are 138 harmful bacteria on an average two cent coin.

o   Like I said.

·         By an odd coincidence, you’re not too far from Osca r either ………….. not exactly mouldy, but fermenting. That pair of trousers you took off last Friday is still standing outside your bedroom door; Cecily ran screaming out of the house when she came upon it yesterday. It took half an hour to settle her.

o   Cecily’s scared of her shadow.

·         Well they left together yesterday.

Jesus carries his cross through the Vatican

It's taken most of the day, but  I think this picture shows the inappropriateness of the Vatican as a centre for the promulgation of the Christian message. The Vatican Museum belongs to a time when we talked of  'princes of the church'; it's time for all Christian denominations to sell their jewels.

 

 

 

 

Cities

 

City Lives.

  

They shout into space,

answer each other like whales

across great haunted distances;

they never meet,

only sound waves ever meet.

 

 

Alone in their canyons,

hives,

shoals

they roar.

Rooms upon rooms

upon houses upon houses

upon streets upon streets:

roars spilling out,

spilling over,

spilling down.

 

A million sound waves,

a million discordancies

tumbling, surging, 

pouring out

onto the streets,

into the traffic,

wheels, cogs, pistons:

 

the cannibal jazz

of cities.

 

Where Are You

         Where Are You.

 

Where are you.

Where are you child.

Among the spring green leaves

Naked as a lizard;

I hear your airy lilt,

Why are you humming.

 

From what remote well

Do these grotesque sounds come;

Dispatched, bleak cirrus

In the high skies of a child's voice,

Freezing all the forest

Into fairy-tale stillness.

 

Where are you,

Where are you child.

In what empty paradise;

Where's the tower that emits your eccentric song;

Against the frozen wings of which birds of paradise

Do you rub.

 

Love

The idea, the word, the wish, the conjecture. High and low flying. The fog. Nothing easy or thought out but defeats you there, at the bottom of a series of rungs. Because nothing is so high-flying in our aspirations. Where dreams and bodies collide with such vehemence, a triumph is unlikely, only that fog. And the fog eats, or demolishes; because, somehow, that's what's chosen. Somehow demolition is easier in stress.

In My Mouth  

Love, the word: lush,

a summer night’s rain. 

Itself:

taut, brittle.

 

I had it on the end of a forceps;

bead of mercury, it escaped.

Love, the word:

I swallowed it. 

  

Art and poetry

                                               

                          Van Eyck: The Crucifixion with the Virgin and St John

  El Greco: The Crucifixion

 

       

Mantegna: Women at the crucifixion

 

 

Both, like plasticine, can be so malleable or, at the other end of the scale, so nuanced.  Small suggestions take you somewhere else: a new direction, a new discovery. So much is so possible from the same root. A new colour, turn of a limb may bring a new, altogether different image, as the magnetic words on the fridge quite randomly scatter into unexpected meanings, fresh ideas.  


 

Bacon: Three |Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion

 

 

      Three Monsters. 
 

Here are three monsters:

Agony, a greyhound skinned; howl.

Hollowness, a hen plucked;  peck.

Dementia, a bundle of hay;  scratch.
 

 

I have stood them on furniture

to pose.
 

They were in the entrails of spirit,

I picked them out with a forceps.

I thought they looked remarkable in the light.

I thought the viewing public

might want to scrape at them

with their spatulas.

 

 

Mont Sainte Victoire

 

Cezanne's Mountain 

i

Like ice, like iron,

glass, air, granite.  

 

The sun inside it,

through it, off it.

 

Purpling into thunder,

convulsing cumulusly,

 

bulging

 into storm.  

 

ii 

Sugary brilliance this morning,

the brow of Provence

clear as the first day;

a tooth, a molar.

The Beauty

From the shit slops she grew;

we marvelled.

Such a slim, graceful beauty

from our soil,

that crystalline perfection

from our sphagnum sponge;

such iciness, hauteur.

 

Such a bitch, we all agreed,

yet every man longed for her gaze

to soften on him.

To be in her ice trail,

to hope to bed her;

such power over men and women:

the witch.

from Painting Women

 

 

                         Balance 

                                                                                                                                              a brushstroke tips it

  

       He adds                                                                                     counterweights

                                                              

                                                                                                                                                        corrects

  

                     She arrives                                                                by bristles of a

  

                                                              brush          

  

                                                                                  a construction                                                                 of
     
   light

  

                                      acrylic

  

                                                                                                                         on  paper                 

At One End of a Bench

 

At one end of a bench

an old man wearing Winter clothes

regards the fountains and Summer

through melt-water irises.

 

This man needs my ear to be a conch

so that he can call to the past down these auditory canals.

And when he calls, his wife and sons will resurrect,

return, reverse like filings into a family.

 

It is mid-morning in Stephen's Green;

the usual sounds: clacking fowl and fountain symphonies,

outside the thrash of traffic and voices.

 

In a moment,

two strangers on a bench are traveling backwards to Mayo;

elsewhere a beggar has recreated himself in a bank window

and somewhere, busy in a kitchen, a woman is conversing

though the voice that answers has not been heard for years.